“I shall have no end of things to tell you, things _he_ said of you too, Den. Ay, I know”—at a slight gesture. “Another time. Yes, by-and-by. But you’ve seen accounts of the battle. That charge of the Reserve through the valley wasn’t bad! French column tried to turn our flank, you know. We did just knock ’em into a cocked hat and no mistake. The column just simply ceased to exist.” Molly tried to put in a word, and was baffled. “You’ll be as furious as I am at some of the comments in the papers. The utter ignoramuses! What about? Why, the state of our Army getting back from Spain. I should think the poor fellows _were_ scarecrows, after all they’d gone through. Small wonder either! The scarecrows made the enemy give an uncommon good account of ’emselves at Coruña, all the same. But people here seem to think an Army can walk through a Campaign, and come back every inch as spick and span as when it left British shores. Much they know about the matter! And if shoes did wear out, and our fellows got back barefoot, whose fault was that but the fault of those who made the shoes at home?” So much Roy poured out impulsively. Then he stopped. A consciousness had broken upon him of something unsatisfactory, something impending. Denham’s face was to him as an open book, and he saw written there more things than one. One thing that he saw made him turn sharply to Polly, as she stood a little way off, prettily composed. Was _this_ the meeting of the two, after six years of enforced separation? Roy recalled his talk with Polly on his return from Bitche, and in a flash he read the true state of affairs. He looked hard at each in turn. “Polly, didn’t I tell you? He has come back.” Polly stirred slightly. “You understand? ’Tis Den himself.” It was necessary for Polly to answer. “Captain Ivor is indeed most fortunate to have obtained his release,” she said, adjusting her scarf. “Fortunate to have obtained his release!” repeated Roy slowly. Then he acted, with a decision and promptitude worthy of his vocation in life. A gesture ordered Molly to make herself scarce. Seizing Mrs. Bryce by the arm, he dragged away that astonished lady, reserving explanations till they were outside the room. After which he poured forth profuse apologies, but would allow no re-entrance, literally setting his back against the door. (_To be concluded._) ON SOME POINTS OF DEPORTMENT IN SINGING. I hope you who read these words will not think that I am encouraging the vanity of which we all, girls and boys too, possess a certain amount, in giving a few suggestions which may help to dispel some of the awkwardness so often shown by the young and inexperienced vocalist. How often, usually at the moment of going on the platform at some small amateur concert, have I heard the cry, “Oh, I must have a piece of music to hold in my hand!” from some nervous young singer, oppressed by the feeling that she is all hands and has nowhere to hide them!